


antonicus

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [4]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005), Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Πλούταρχος | Parallel Lives - Plutarch
Genre: Alcohol, Face-Fucking, First Time, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Misuse of Euripides, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24747016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: A nundines fling for two young Romans abroad.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: noble consuls of rome [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 22
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

“ _I do not know what this young man wants, but what he wants, he wants very badly.”_  
-Caesar, on Brutus, quoted by Plutarch.

  
  


Brutus had always considered himself firstly a man of the mind, one whose principle task in life was to think thoughts and leave petty matters of business and war to those less suited to the cerebral. But he was not wholly inexperienced with the political life; at the age of twenty-eight, he dutifully took part in the expedition that knocked the Cyprus king Ptolemy from his realm, and at twenty-nine he dutifully accepted commendation for the deed. He expected that to be the end of such vulgar dealings for his thirties.

He decided he would chart a course through public life that would be unimpeachable. No matter the personal cost or softer feelings, he resolved to only ever do what he could determine was noble, moral, and right.

Lapses in judgment were reserved for younger men.

* * *

Athens, three months into his studies. He is twenty-two years old.

As occasionally happens, Brutus finds himself alone one evening, hours after all lectures for the day have ended. Alone and unoccupied when he would prefer to be otherwise.

He recently received correspondence from his mother and his sister Tertia, who is yet young enough to resent long absences of family members. The letters have inspired terrible longing and irritable rebellion in equal force. The latter he attributes solely to his surroundings; it is easy to forget the duties of a Roman when one is in such a casual place.

He stubbornly lingers in his rooms for some time, trying to read one thing or another and setting all aside after each fails to settle his restless mood. From outside he hears the passing sounds of people: talking, laughing, having the time of their lives. It is impossible to focus.

But why should he? After all, even Plato's guardians were to be reared surrounded by fine and graceful works, which like a breeze from a good place would guide them towards serenity and brotherhood.

Conscience thus quieted, he exchanges scroll for toga and quits his rooms.

He'll go for a walk, he thinks. Hands quick on his shoulder clasp, feet impatient for their sandals. The open air is calling to him, promising – something, an open-ended question as coaxing as any Socrates might have posed. Like the youth he rarely allows himself to be, he follows that promise out into the sunshine.

* * *

Athens is a city still on its knees, though by its behavior you would not know it disliked the position.

Two decades have not healed many of the scars from Sulla's siege; the courthouse, the Tholos, and much of the southern district still bear damage from the catapults. The Academy's achingly young olive trees, replacements for the sacred ones chopped for siegeworks timber, are a daily reminder that neither age nor consecration could protect something from a determined Roman.

Many parts of the city that had been destroyed by Sulla were never rebuilt. In the empty spaces left amid the footprint of more permanent structures, stalls and tents now flourish, lending a chaotic, makeshift atmosphere to the streets on the busiest days. Athens: a festival that runs in perpetuity, glorying defiantly against the encroaching wave.

Brutus chooses to bypass the Roman agora on his walk – the area is platted with great potential, but the big donations promised by rich Romans made misty-eyed from their deep affection for the ancient birthplace of democracy have been slow to actually materialize. The new agora remains mostly a promise, the estate more dream than real. It is depressing.

Instead, he seeks out the crowded streets tangling around the ancient agora to the west. Many stalls are doing quick business in food and wine, and although he is neither hungry nor thirsty he enjoys the sight of the plentiful fare. He edges past groups of casual diners, smiling tolerantly but remaining aloof.

Someone calls, “Brutus,” and he looks around to find Aristocrates reclining nearby in the shade of a moria tree. Masking the relief he feels at the sight of a familiar face, he steps around a pack of tussling barefooted children and approaches his fellow student.

Aristocrates is training to be a rhetorician, his career goal likely to tutor the children of men like Brutus. He is clever and a little sardonic, but never ill-tempered, and everyone likes him.

They exchange greetings and pleasantries. Aristocrates does not stand and Brutus does not sit. He remarks on the pleasant weather; it is replied that it is indeed fine. Aristocrates references the lecture from the previous day; Brutus makes a noncommittal comment which affirms he had been present but reveals nothing more.

After exhausting all potential in such topics, they fall to a peaceable silence and watch the crowd in the market.

A corner of Brutus's mind starts up its usual agitating for immediate withdrawal. He's had his little stroll, goes the refrain. He's proved to himself that the outside world carries on without his presence. There is no longer any reason for him not to go back to his rooms and pass the evening in peaceful contemplation and solitude. Why, this might be the _very night_ he discovers within himself the brilliance and discipline to finally compose a decent poem.

But tonight is not destined to be that night, for the majority of his mind views this feeble mental oration with well-deserved scorn. For months now it has laid out the same argument, and for months he has produced nothing but dreck, poetry he would be ashamed to show the most ignorant and provincial of Italians.

So he remains beside Aristocrates and does not make his excuses to leave. Indeed, perhaps he should take the initiative—

“Do you have plans for the evening?” he asks, and is immediately overcome with no small amount of mortification as Aristocrates hesitates – the frantic pause of one trying to plot a course through hazardous waters.

“Probably a quiet night—” he begins vaguely, as Brutus, too late, tries to forestall the need for the lie.

“I ask out of politeness, only, of course. I myself am, am _quite_ —”

The other reassures him, “Oh, of course—”

Brutus breathes out and nods shortly. “Yes.”

This hideous exchange is interrupted by some kind of commotion approaching the market from the south end.

They both crane their necks to look for the source. Over the chatter of the crowd, it is first understood through its beat. But as it draws nearer, the bright sounds of other instruments make themselves known, floating over houses and tents, tendrils of song drifting through the twists and turns of the city streets.

“This should be a pleasant addition to the scene,” says Aristocrates, moments before a dancing band rounds a corner and emerges into the market. The group is composed of six enthusiasts: a tympanum, a rhoptron, two horns, a lyre and a kithara.

Children shriek and run excitedly to get a closer look. The rest of the crowd orients itself naturally towards the spectacle. One might think it is a special occasion, the beginning of a Games or festival perhaps, but to Brutus's knowledge it is no such day.

It reflects precisely the kind of loose dissipation many a Roman youth came to Greece to enjoy and spectate. But it's still a shock when the band draws close enough for the faces of its members to be made out, and the identity of the happy young man manning the rhoptron is revealed.

“Mark Antony,” says Brutus, “Of course. I shouldn't be surprised to see him engaged in such a display.”

“You don't like Antony?” Aristocrates stirs, looking faintly surprised. “But everyone likes Antony.”

“So I hear,” says Brutus. Then, hastily: “I find him, he's – fine.”

He hasn't had many interactions with the man – there is little reason their paths should cross much outside their studies. It is only that Mark Antony is a loud, bright character, the kind whose exploits somehow become common knowledge among those who share a school with him, never mind any one student's preferences or disinclination for gossip.

Antony has a way of looking at one like he's having a conversation with a stranger residing inside them, one whose utterances, be they imprecations or assurances, only he can hear. The few times he has been subject to this gaze, Brutus has came away feeling disconcerted.

A strange, knowing smile has appeared on the Aristocrates's face. “He's cheerful and generous with his affections. It's very refreshing, in a Roman.”

“That's one word for it,” mutters Brutus.

“I mean no offense, and of course you yourself are above any reproach,” says Aristocrates, smile growing. “But you must be aware, among the contingent of Romans that normally come here – ”

Brutus blinks. “Yes?”

Teeth appear in the smile. “Well, Rome. It has a certain – unadorned forcefulness to it. Self-assurance can be charming, I'm sure, in the right conditions.”

He is too baffled to be offended. “Unadorned?”

“Rustic?” suggests Aristocrates.

“ _Austere_ ,” says Brutus.

Aristocrates shrugs easily. “As you like.”

The music across the market swells and is matched with enthusiastic shouting from the band's bunching tail of followers, which Brutus is sure is meant to signal something. Sure enough, moments later the song comes to a bombastic finale. The street is allowed a beat of a stunned silence, and then the crowd cheers.

 _Don't encourage this_ , Brutus thinks to them. He takes a breath to speak, but his next words are lost in the great, clashing resumption of noise as the band starts its next song. He shuts his mouth again, dismayed.

Strings are strummed. Fat, brassy noises belch out from horns. Antony's well-muscled arms move energetically, his open palms slapping the face of the rhoptron; Brutus imagines he can hear the rattle of the bronze discs over all else. The man's bright, laughing eyes are intent on the drummer, trying and occasionally failing to match his rhythm.

Aristocrates glances up at Brutus's face and laughs. He calls over the noise, “Come, Brutus. Relent! Tomorrow is nundines.”

“That one needs no excuse,” he says – but lightly, so likely he is not heard. He does not wish to appear humorless. But no matter how faint, his disapproval seems to act as a beacon; the merry band across the street turn and begin to make their way, unerring, in their direction.

He says, “What are they doing.”

“It appears they are headed this way,” observes Aristocrates.

It is beneath his dignity to retreat, but he cannot help but look around for the most strategic avenues. “They are friends of yours, then?”

Aristocrates places an olive in his mouth and shakes his head. “Oh, I only know Antony.”

Driven by the beat of Antony's tireless jangling (or so it seems to Brutus), the boisterous group shuffles raggedly closer. The partisan crowd of the market makes way for them, standing back and clapping along to the music with smiles and laughter.

Brutus braces himself against the wall of sound as the group arrives and, yes, decides to pause right beside the tree. After a couple beats, he makes himself look at Antony, as if he only just noticed his identity.

Antony catches his gaze like he was waiting for it. Brutus gives him a thin smile, and the other's grin grows ever wider, like a weed that needs the barest encouragement from the elements in order to grow.

Aristocrates, meanwhile, bobs his foot where it is resting over his knee.

The scene is exceedingly awkward. His face is hot in the afternoon heat. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, or where he is supposed to fix his gaze. The array of musicians is like a phalanx, and he a lone soldier about to be ran through.

Eventually the song reaches a great, furious end; claps break out once more and Brutus lets out a breath, nodding along in feigned appreciation. Privately, he wills the group to move on. But instead some private conferring is quickly performed among the members, and they begin to lay aside their instruments. Ready hands appears to offer them wine on their break.

Brutus can accept this alternative. He is about to make his excuses to Aristocrates and move along, but then Antony steps forward to make their pair a triad and says, “Hail, Brutus!”

He subsides. “Hail, Antony.”

“It is not often you are seen off the stoa.”

“Lectures have ceased for a time, as you well know.”

“Or outside your rooms,” Antony continues.

“Well, it's such a nice day,” he says, a little flatly.

“I am glad to see even you can be tempted by such passing pleasures. It might settle a wager.”

Before he can make a reply to that clear provocation, Antony looks away, switching his attention to Aristocrates. The two exchange easy greetings, and Brutus, feeling wrong-footed and detesting it, tries not to seethe.

The problem with Mark Antony, he thinks, is that the man behaves like he comes from no family at all.

“Rabanus Buteo was down by the baths earlier,” Aristocrates says to Antony. “Said he was looking for you.”

“I was not aware you were a friend of Buteo, Antony,” says Brutus stiffly, lifting his chin.

He tugs an ear, making a slight face. “I'm... not, as such.”

“Oh, good,” he replies, unthinking. “That man's insufferable.”

Brutus had only been thinking in terms of Buteo having fewer friends in the world, but Antony's brow smooths out as if he'd complimented him. He smiles at Brutus, who upon seeing this decides not to issue a correction, but instead blinks and looks down at his feet.

Antony puts a hand up against the trunk of the tree and leans as if prepared to settle in for a while. “And what has he done to earn such a poor opinion from you?”

Truthfully, Buteo has always been extremely deferential to him. But it is the sort of cringing, obvious manners that belong to a slave, and as Buteo is not a slave, this always arouses feelings of deep suspicion in Brutus. He cannot help but suspect some contempt lies beneath the pleasantness.

He says, “I'm sure it's much the same as you've found – he's obsequious. I can't trust a word that comes out of his mouth.” And when Antony and Aristocrates exchange a look, he says, “What is it?”

“Ah. I have an altogether different problem,” says Antony, oddly evasive.

“Buteo's patron in Rome is a creditor to his family,” explains Aristocrates. He immediately receives a light kick from Antony, who cannot hide his faint embarrassment. Aristocrates looks up at him, face wrinkling. “Oh, get over yourself. You Romans. Debt is a fact of life, there's no use attaching silly emotions like pride or shame to it.”

Financial matters have always been a source of great tedium to Brutus, and he is a little appalled at the idea of anyone thinking he cared about them enough to pass judgment on another.

He says, “So this Buteo fancies himself a bit of a henchmen, does he?”

Aristocrates spreads his hands and smiles at him. “Indeed.”

“It's more of an inconvenience than a real threat,” says Antony. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

He has a curiously open face. Brutus has noticed it before – Antony is always quick to laugh on the stoa – but he didn't realize the transparency extended to all emotions.

“What are your plans for this evening, Antony?” he asks, seeking to remove the unsettled expression from the other man's face. He gestures to the abandoned rhoptron. “Or is the concert to last all night?”

Antony puts his head to one side and considers him. “There is a pankration demonstration at the palaestra nearby in a little while. I was going to go and watch.”

“Pankration,” says Brutus, “that's the one with all the – punching and kicking and choking, the one with no rules?”

Antony makes a slight noise of negation. “It has rules.”

“Some rules,” agrees Aristocrates.

“There's no biting.”

“And no poking your opponent's eyes out.”

“And you can't aim for the phallus,” finishes Antony.

“Ah – so not entirely uncivilized, then,” says Brutus.

Antony's mouth twitches. “I expect it will be a good show.”

“Not for me, alas,” says Aristocrates, climbing to his feet. “I'm off – many preparations still to make for tonight.”

“Your symposium,” says Antony. “Yes, I'm looking forward to it.”

Brutus is prepared to give no sign he thinks anything of the news that the Greek is not, as he had earlier stated, planning a quiet night. Who he chooses to invite is of course his own business and nothing to do with Brutus – he does not make a habit of taking auspices from every small interaction with another person, or otherwise fixating on matters he cannot control. This would be foolish.

Aristocrates also does not give any sign of awkwardness at having been caught in the lie, but says smoothly, “Yes – you'll both come, of course?”

Brutus says, “Ah,” and searches frantically for an excuse. He despises the idea of a pity invitation. He knows he will be more than content with an evening spent reading in his rooms.

Antony says, “Of course,” and claps Brutus roughly on the shoulder like they are common soldiers standing elbow-to-elbow in a bar.

He looks at him, startled.

But Aristocrates knows enough to wait for Brutus to make his own answer. Amusement is plain on his face, though something like kindness edges in, and he says to him, “This is the most I've heard you reveal of yourself since we first met. You're usually so guarded, Brutus! Forthrightness suits you.”

Trust a Greek to equate exposed with forthright, Brutus thinks. But he is caught by the moment's insight: an image of himself as seen from the outside. Do others think him guarded? He thinks over his public appearances and behavior and can find no fault in them. Though certainly he hasn't had much opportunity to warm up to his fellow students; he cannot remember the last time he laughed with another.

They were still waiting for his reply. Aristocrates expectant but patient; Antony oddly challenging.

“I'll come,” he says finally. “Thank you.”

Aristocrates inclines his head, accepting this with a pleased smile, and excuses himself. This leaves Brutus with only Antony as a companion, which is an eventuality he had overlooked in his considerations.

They look at one another, measuring.

“So,” says Antony, pushing off the tree and stretching his arms above his head. “To the palaestra?”

Overcome with a momentary recklessness, Brutus says, “Sure, yes. Why not?” And then, as Antony makes to leave without further fuss, he asks, “But what of your rhoptron? And your bandmates?”

He glances back at the array of musicians and then looks at Brutus. “Oh, it's not mine. And they I only met an hour ago.”

Bemused, and trying hard to hold onto the determination and spark of enthusiasm that had spurred him into choosing this, Brutus trails him from the market.

* * *

The wrestling school at the palaestra consists of several courts surrounded by colonnades, creating a series of well-lit porticoes. Looking ahead through the pillars, Brutus can see a crowd has already began to gather in the central court.

Antony is loose and aimless in his walking, weaving in and other of the colonnades one moment and tightrope-walking the edges of the pathway the next. Brutus, who is used to walking in either sedate groups or by himself, in which case he is just as direct but considerably swifter in pace, has to keep pausing and waiting for him.

“Have you ever thought to try it?” asks Antony, swinging around a column. “Pankration, I mean.”

“Gods, no,” he says. “Have you?”

“Of course. It sounds like great fun.”

They exchange looks of mutual bafflement. Brutus senses the barely-born evening threatening to fracture if he does not make more of an effort.

“What do you find... fun, about it?” he asks.

“Oh, you know – throwing everything you have against another, no move or trick left unused—”

“Except biting, or gouging out another's eyes,” recites Brutus, “and let us not forget: no kicking someone in the—”

“ – so that in the end,” says Antony loudly over him, grinning, “even if you are the one forced to submit, you can do so with honor and relief, knowing you exerted yourself to the utmost.”

“Even if you have to submit?” he echoes. He cannot fathom finding any sort of grace in losing.

Antony looks at him, curious. “Do you take no pleasure in knowing with absolute confidence your place and position in the world?”

Brutus pauses; he is not sure he has ever had occasion to truly know his place. His mother, certainly, has told him it often enough. But the power of her notions, alternately provided via assurances and lectures, has waned as Brutus moves out into the world and finds that it does not, as she'd always implied, await his presence and opinions with bated breath.

He says slowly, “I'm not sure I would _find my place_ by getting pummelled into the dirt while a bunch of muscular Greeks stand around and holler, but – I think I understand what you mean, actually.”

He is forced to stop as Antony abruptly turns and stands directly in his path. He says, stabbing Brutus's sternum with his index finger, “See, I knew you would. I had that feeling about you.”

Brutus rubs his chest. “You had a feeling about me?”

Antony starts walking backwards, and Brutus follows, careful not to step too quickly and close the gap between them.

“Yes, you know – I see you sitting there during lectures, or walking about in the evenings, and I just had a feeling that you understand.”

Brutus does not know what to think about this statement. He usually dislikes reminders that he is visible even when not aware of it; he should like to only appear to people when he desired them to hear him, like a devastating vision sent by one of the gods.

But it does not sound so bad, being noticed, not when Antony says it like that: like they share a secret and it is good.

“I've noticed you as well,” he says, because it is true and Antony's openness demands something in return. “In lectures, I mean,” he adds, when Antony tilts his head, inquiring.

Of the Romans who come to Athens to study, some are more studious than others. What had began as an honest desire for broadening one's education had started to smack of credentialing, something to be mentioned to attain a position rather than a tool to be used in decision-making. Many of Brutus's fellow students treated the stoa like a social club.

Antony at first seemed to belong to this group, but his enjoyment in arguing philosophy was too evident to damn him entirely to the poseurs and useless socialites. Brutus thinks it more likely that his reported disrespect for boundaries meant he could indulge his desires both low and high and never feel a conflict between the two. He didn't know if he felt envious or dismayed at the idea.

When they arrive at the central court, Brutus seeks to distract and relax himself by the usual means, and quickly procures a wineskin and a pair of cups from a vendor walking along the edges of the crowd.

Antony accepts a cup with evident pleasure. “Here we _go_. This evening is off to a fine start.”

Brutus snorts lightly, but as he pours and drinks his own wine, he finds he cannot disagree. It feels undeniably good to be standing among a milling crowd, all joined towards one purpose – even if that purpose is to watch two men wrestle. The sky overhead is clear and beautiful, and there is someone to whom he can turn his head and speak at a moment's notice.

It's nice.

“So it's, uh, first to touch the ground, correct?” he says to Antony, endeavoring to sound interested as two men step up to one another in the clearing a few feet away.

Antony doesn't look away from the match as he shakes his head and says sideways, “No, no, that's upright pankration. In this, you start on the ground and lose by tapping out.”

“But what if it's clear to everyone that a fellow has lost, but he's very stubborn?”

He glances over. “Then the match goes on for an uncomfortably long time, or the man passes out. Either way, we all shake our head over his outsized pride – ” he breaks off with a wordless shout of glee, one matched by the crowd around them, as an umpire gives a signal and the two men in the clearing surge forward.

Brutus drinks his wine.

It's strange; he thought the contest would be faster. The men strain against one another, muscles bulging. Occasionally one breaks away and they exchange a few punches or kicks, which generally is more visibly legible to Brutus. But that must be too tiring, because before long they're grappling again.

“This is not not so different than wrestling after all,” he says, a moment before one of the contestants gets one arm around the other's neck and delivered a series of brutal hits to his side with the other. “ _Oh_ , that's – ah. Yes, yes, I see. Well, that's him done. Pretty sure that crack I heard was a rib.”

He raises his wine and, finding the cup empty, reaches for the skin to refill it. He makes a cursory attempt to keep one eye on the match, but somehow by the time he has recapped the skin and tucked it back under his arm, it is all over and the umpires are brushing the disturbed dirt back into an even plane for the next fight.

“Good show,” he says, but Antony is no longer beside him. Brutus frowns and looks around the crowd, wondering if his companion has perhaps left to relieve his bladder.

Across the clearing, several men step aside to let the next contestant through, and the contestant is Antony.

“Oh, _gods_ ,” says Brutus, and hurriedly takes a drink before shoving through to the edge of the fight. He is jostled and sent a few nasty looks, and he grimaces many apologies but does not desist until he is beside his fellow student, who is sitting naked on the ground and stretching like he engages casually in this sort of scandalous behavior every day.

“What are you doing?” he says urgently, squatting awkwardly and trying not to spill his wine.

Antony's expression is hard to make out, as it is rotated ninety degrees as he reaches along his extended legs for his toes, but Brutus thinks he looks quizzical.

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm fighting.”

“Why? Why are you fighting? Did you not just see that man get his ribs snapped like kindling?”

The scoff is easier to read. “I am not he.”

He lets up and changes position, placing the soles of his feet against one another and pressing his knees towards the ground. Brutus looks down at the pale insides of his upper thighs, his terrifyingly vulnerable phallus and testicles, and quakes inside.

“Please don't do this,” says Brutus.

“Why, is this concern?”

The words are structured like a joke, but there is honest puzzlement in Antony's voice. He claps his hands, shaking off excess dirt, and rises to his feet. Brutus rises with him, clutching his wine. He glances over at Antony's opponent, who is at least a head taller and has hands like a titan.

“This is beneath the dignity of a Roman,” says Brutus desperately, in a last ditch attempt to reach him.

Antony presses a hand to his shoulder and smiles wryly when Brutus meets his eyes. “Our friendship is yet new. I am sure the next time we disagree, you will come up with a more compelling argument.”

“Am I to be a friend or a chronic pleader?” says Brutus, but Antony is no longer listening – he is stepping away, turning to face his opponent.

They arrange themselves into position on the ground; the other man's reach, Brutus notices, is also longer than Antony's.

Brutus does not have to watch this travesty; he could leave now, before the match begins and the blood starts to flow. He could make the long walk back to his rooms and take up his stylus, and if his thoughts ever circled back around to Antony, he would shake his head and sigh.

Except – he had said _friendship_.

The umpire signals. Antony and the other man collide with the dull, heavy sound of smacking flesh. Brutus drains his cup of wine and pours a third.

The problem with Mark Antony, he thinks, is that the man is too fond of making a spectacle of himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains abridged lines from Euripides's _Medea_ (look, it's a whole... thing – you'll see); I used the David Kovacs translation, available through Tufts University's Perseus Digital Library, which remains an invaluable resource, and I'm sure this is exactly what they envisioned people would use it for.

“You're bleeding on my toga.”

Antony's reply is muffled, courtesy of the wrist he has pressed to his bloody nose. Brutus imagines he had been saying _sorry_ , but this only mollifies him a little. They stagger on another few steps before he feels the need to speak again.

“You know, if you didn't go gallivanting around in just a chiton, you'd have a toga of your own to staunch the bleeding.”

Antony drops his wrist and says, “Please don't make me laugh, it hurts.”

Brutus frowns. “I wasn't trying to make you laugh. You think I'd waste my breath trying to elicit laughter from an idiot?”

His head rolls like his neck has turned to liquid, and he says into Brutus's ear, “Are you always this mean when you drink?”

Ordinarily, Brutus would be be mortified, but when he considers Antony's dishevelled, bruised state, the irritation again supplants all other emotion. He grips the arm flung over his shoulder and adjusts his hold on his waist. “Where are we going?” he asks, instead of answering the question.

Antony nods ahead. The bruising around his left eye forces him to squint. “The palaestra bath is just in there.”

“A bath,” says Brutus, relieved. “Finally, you have a good idea.”

Antony huffs a laugh and immediately groans, clutching his side with his free hand. Brutus thinks he might be playing up his injuries a little. He rolls his eyes and drags him along.

Greek gymnasiums are a looking glass version of the ones back in Rome; the proportions of the baths and exercise grounds are all distorted, so the former are smaller and less opulent and the latter given space and centrality of position. Brutus would never admit it to his fellow Romans, but he privately loves the Greek baths. The simple space with its clean, restrained lines is soothing.

But for an old man dozing in one corner, they are alone in the baths.

As if to prove Brutus's suspicions about his earlier histrionics, Antony wastes no time plunging into the water. He reemerges with a long, obnoxious moan and casts himself back against the wall, throwing his elbows up to keep head above the water.

Brutus shakes his head at the loud display. He sets his companion's crumpled chiton down and proceeds to undress. He is unhurried in his movements and slips so neatly into the bath, barely a sound comes from the displacement of water. He scrapes water idly over his chest.

Antony watches him, his bruised squint masking his thoughts.

“Well? Are you content, now that you know your place?” inquires Brutus.

Antony had won, but barely; Brutus didn't quite understand how he'd eeled from his opponent's hold and bent him to submission. He had still been reeling from the image of seeing Antony tossed across the clearing like one might skip a stone on a river. He wasn't prepared for the sudden reversal of fortune.

Antony flicks some water in his direction and says, “I won, didn't I?”

“You're lucky you still have all your teeth. How do your wounds fare?” He has a long scrape down his neck, and it stands raised and red along the otherwise healthy, even-toned skin.

“They're nothing,” says Antony carelessly. “Or they will be, after a good soak.”

Brutus relents. “I'll admit you did seem to enjoy yourself. I personally don't find risking injuries nearly so pleasant.”

“You never take joy in honest physical exertion?”

Antony keeps his hair longer than is strictly appropriate, and the thick dark locks look ridiculous plastered against his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Brutus is possessed of a strange desire to reach out and pull the hair back. He could get a better look at the scrape, if the man's neck was thus better exposed.

“Depends on the type of exertion,” he says, that alien boldness that has ruled the rest of the afternoon rising up within him once more. Antony seems uniquely skilled in provoking it.

Antony holds himself still as Brutus drifts closer in the water. His eyelashes are lowered, and his features have otherwise arranged themselves to conceal his thoughts. It is a strange stillness for a man who has spent the day up to now in a constant whirl of movement.

When Brutus pushes the hair back from his brow, Antony's eyes dart up and narrow upon him. He is thinking hard, but Brutus, for once, isn't thinking much at all.

“What have you heard of me?” asks Antony lowly.

“Heard?” says Brutus, distracted now by the nearness of another body, and what is happening below the water. “You mean your rhoptron playing? Do you want an honest review? Because I'm afraid you cannot keep an even beat.”

Antony's wariness dissolves into something far more confused. It's only when his shoulders relax that Brutus notices he had been holding them tensed. He realizes he has missed something. What has he heard of Mark Antony? He clears his mind and attends the question.

He has heard of the rowdy bouts of public drinking, of dramatic love affairs and dubious political allegiances. He has heard the man is already so deep in debt, he was barely nineteen years of age before showing his face in the public forum became a risky affair.

“I think I did pretty well, considering I'd never played one before today,” says Antony, but despite his words he is still waiting on Brutus.

Brutus considers his face. By his reputation, one would think him to look a monster, something wild and ruined, but in truth he merely looks young. Just then, he looks young and hesitant.

The water in the bath possesses no current like a sea or river, but Brutus feels it gently pushing him forward anyway. He reaches out and grips the tile on either side of Antony's body and says, “I suppose it is good to try new things.”

“Well, you know what they say,” and out comes his quick grin, though it's thinner than usual, “when in Greece.”

Brutus ducks forward and presses his lips to the scrape on his neck. He was right: the skin beneath his mouth feels hot and tender. Curious, he licks it and tastes salt and copper.

Strong hands come up and curl around his hipbones, but Brutus prefers to push forward rather than wait to be tugged. A wonderfully warm and firm body welcomes him; he has seen Antony's body many times – even before this strange day – but it feels better than he could have ever guessed. And his cock is very responsive, thickening next to his own with gratifying readiness.

Antony reaches out and grasps Brutus, testing. His lashes fall again and he says, “I see why you wear your tunics so long.”

“I'm a little scandalized you wear yours so _short_ ,” says Brutus, also gazing down.

Antony smirks. “There's something to be said for ease of access.”

They tighten their grips on one another and fall into rhythm – a steady one, now that it is Brutus leading the beat – and their bath passes very pleasantly indeed.

* * *

“You've never taken a lover?” says Antony, incredulous. “What – _never_?”

They are walking slowly to Aristocrates's house on the far west side. The sun is going down, and most establishments have closed their doors and shutters. The wineshops and taverns have put out lanterns on their steps. Boisterous noises leak out onto the street through the windows as they pass.

Brutus lifts a shoulder. “If I need sex, I find sex. But I don't want a relationship until I can devote the proper attention to it – I mean, it seems like an awful lot of bother and distraction.”

“Bother and _distraction_?”

“Are you going to keep repeating everything I say in that tone?” demands Brutus. “Because if so, this conversation is going to get very dull indeed.”

Antony raises his hands in defeat, though in the passing tavern lights, he can see he still wears a look of amused disbelief. They pause a moment at a corner and refill their cups from the second wineskin Brutus purchased outside the palaestra.

“There's more to life than passing physical pleasures, you know,” he says, once they are walking again.

“I do know,” says Antony readily, “I am merely skeptical as to their worth.”

“Worth – now, that's a philosophical term if I ever heard one.” He's on surer footing now, and between this and the wine (and perhaps the sexual release), Brutus feels quite solid in the world.

“Surely we should save this for the symposium? No? Fine.” Antony gives up and throw out a declarative hand, startling a passing horse merchant heading out of the city. “I believe that all that is good in life springs from _love_ , that love is the greatest good. And if love is the greatest good, there can be no shame in pursuing it.”

“And if pursuit brings degradation?” counters Brutus, thinking of the rumours from Rome.

He shrugs. “Then it wasn't love.”

“But how are you supposed to know at the time – or can you only decide it was love after the fact? How can you _ever_ be sure?”

“The gods know, I suppose. If you can trust the gods, then you can trust love – there, Brutus. Surely you can approve of that answer, at least.”

“I'm not sure I care for you equating trust in the gods with giving up all control over your own path. They are not there to be blamed, Antony.”

“Control? Ah, this explain the difference between us. There is no control when you're in love. It sweeps you up like a strong western squall and remakes the world right before your eyes. And any external troubles you may have had just... cease to matter.”

Brutus shakes his head. “Then I suppose I should count myself fortunate I have not experienced it. Sounds awful.”

“Awful?” Antony turns suddenly, putting himself in Brutus's path and stopping all forward momentum, much like he had earlier on their way towards the pankration matches. He folds his hands firmly over Brutus's shoulders and says with forceful drunken earnestness:

“No, it is not awful. I understand we have very different experiences between us, but no man is without his troubles. Imagine that all the matters that dog your days, large and small, petty and important – imagine how it might feel for them to briefly lift, like a morning fog melting away under the heat of the day. Imagine feeling – absolute clarity. The perfect union of heart and mind. _That_ is what love feels like, Brutus.”

Brutus's eyes are dry from not blinking. He wonders if this is what students of Antiochus of Ascalon felt when he spoke urgently to them of the mind's ability to divine truth from falsehood.

The next moment he feels silly for comparing the two. He says, with a shaky attempt at levity: “I see the precise manner in which you've been read wrong, Antony. All those wild rumours about you circulating through the streets back home, calling you a ruffian and a scoundrel, and it turns out you're just a modern-day Phaedrus.”

Antony is slow in taking away his hands, even as humor slides over his face. “Ah, don't pin that name on me. Phaedrus died penniless in exile, did he not? I fear your aim is too true.”

They begin walking again. Brutus says, “Fear not, you still have time to reform your ways. Renounce this love-seeking, and you may yet be saved. Of course, you will have to spend the rest of your days ever-vigilant.”

“Vigilant?”

They have come to the top of Aristocrates's street. Brutus turns to him and says, “I worry what you would do for love, Antony. You seem a capable enough man. If the wrong person was to win your affections, who is to say what manner of disaster might strike?”

Antony pauses. “I feel like there was a compliment in there somewhere, but it is hard to salvage midst the warnings of doom.”

Brutus gamely attempts to slap his back in the same hearty manner the other man likes to use, but his aim is off, and he pounds one of the man's many bruises. Antony takes a wild step to the side, wincing; Brutus freezes and grimaces.

They continue on to the symposium.

* * *

“Why, you two appear to have made great strides since I saw you in the market,” says Aristocrates, inspecting them with some amusement. “Antony, I see from your face the pankration went well. Come in, you best eat before you drink any more, or you won't last half the night.”

“Aristocrates, you know better than to underestimate me like that,” says Antony cheerfully, following him into the room.

Brutus hangs back to let him select a spot first, in case he wishes to sit next to another – there are four other men in the room besides their host, and they have all just started their dinners. But Antony sits opposite Aristocrates, so Brutus takes the empty seat to his left.

He blinks, a little dumbly, down at the plate of food that is readily placed in front of him. He is drunker than he had supposed.

Brutus and Antony are apparently the last to arrive, for as soon as they've been seated and their sandals removed, Aristocrates commences with making the customary offerings to the gods. The group sings a couple songs over their food, then the plates are cleared from the tables and they settle down to drinking. Brutus resolves to take his next round more slowly and turns his attention to his companions.

He knows only one other beside Antony and Aristocrates – Philistos of Rhodes, who sometimes helps lead conversations after lectures. He is a reedy, melancholy man, with a habit of folding his arms as if to protect his gut from any sudden jabs. He currently looks even more morose than usual, which is what prompts Brutus to inquire after his affairs.

“Philistos is suffering from a recent heartbreak,” calls over Sicinnos, one of men previously unfamiliar to Brutus. “His actress has thrown him over for another.”

“Another woman, they say,” adds Cobon, with a slight snigger.

“Surely that does not count, then,” says Eumaeus.

Philistos finally speaks up to say quietly, “Tell me how it does not count, when she does not answer my messages. And when I go to her home, she is either out with this other woman, or otherwise occupied in her bedchamber and refusing to come to the door? Tell me how that does not count, Eumaeus.”

Moved by the man's obvious wretchedness, Brutus says, “I'm sorry for your troubles, but take heart – I hear another lover comes along just as quickly as the last left, if you are receptive to it. And if not, well. There is always books and poetry to distract you.”

At this, Antony barks out a loud laugh. He leans past Brutus, placing a hand on his chest as if to hold him back, and says to Philistos, “Pray forgive him. We just established on the walk over here that he is as cool and unaffected as Apollo himself. He'll talk your ear off about poetry, but he does not feel any of it.”

Brutus blinks and looks at him, too surprised by the jab to reply. The hurt is absorbed and sinks down below the surface of his skin; maybe later he will find a bruise.

“Perhaps,” says Aristocrates, quaffing a large goblet of wine, “we should do some lines of a play? Something thematically appropriate, to soothe Philistos's feelings of betrayal, and address this disagreement that is so obviously brewing in the room.”

Eumaeus says, “Disagreement?” and looks around at all of them closely, as if he might read an explanation on their faces.

Aristocrates waves a hand at Brutus and Antony. “A disagreement about love, and its passing – ”

“Now – hang on a moment,” says Brutus, sitting up.

“Medea, then,” suggests Sicinnos, and the five Greeks voice their agreement, though Cobon's is more of a whoop and Philistos's is barely more than a mutter.

“Sure, why not?” says Antony. And when Brutus looks over, he is already watching him back, his challenging smile identical to the one he wore earlier during his wrestling match.

Something within Brutus rallies at the look, and a new determination descends over his inebriation. He straightens in his seat and raises his chin. Without looking away from Antony, he quotes coolly:

“What a bane is love to mortals.”

 _Ohh!_ shout their companions as one.

It is on.

* * *

It is not so different from the pankration. They are set against each other in the center of the room, with a circle of Greeks around them drinking and offering loud commentary. There are no rules, except Brutus may not kick Antony between the legs, no matter how aggravating he becomes.

“Come now,” starts Brutus, looking across at him. “I will share my thoughts with you as a friend.”

There is a long moment where Antony visibly searches his thoughts for the correct place in the play. Then his brow clears and he puts out a hand in a wordless, gallant _go ahead_.

“Where am I now to turn?” asks Brutus. “This is how things stand: to my own kin I have become an enemy, and by my services to you I have made foes of those I need not have harmed. I, poor wretch, have in you a wonderful and faithful husband – if only I flee the country, go into exile, and deprive myself of friends. This is splendid praise for a new bridegroom, that his wife who saved him shall wander as a beggar.”

Their audience hisses, and Antony shakes his head, pacing in place. He and the hissing both pause as Brutus puts up a hand, calling for silence.

“O Zeus, when you gave to men sure signs of gold that is counterfeit – why is there no mark on the human body by which one could identify base _men_?” he finishes with heavy scorn and steps back as the Greeks laugh and shout.

Antony's mouth twitches as he studies Brutus. His eyes narrow in thought. After a second he rouses and nods. “All right, all right.” To their audience he says, “Shush, now – there's no chorus in this part.”

Brutus folds his arms and raises his eyebrows, waiting for his riposte.

Antony slips into Jason's character with great ease: his shoulders squaring up, his stance widening aggressively. When he speaks, his tone is full of defiance and venom:

“It appears, _woman_ , that I must be no mean speaker, but like the good helmsman on a ship with close-reefed sails, run before the storm of your wearisome prattling.”

Cobon laughs loudly and is immediately shushed by the others.

Antony continues, pacing at ease along the perimeter, so different from Brutus's decision to stand still. “So far as you _did_ help me, you did well – but in return for saving me you got more than you gave. First, you now live among Greeks.” He looks to the other men with a conspiratorial grin and emphatic applause issues forth from their audience.

He looks back to Brutus. “You understand justice and the rule of law, with no concession to force. All the Greeks have learned that you are clever, and you have won renown.” He throws his hand out and exclaims like a man driven to the edges of his patience: “But if you lived at the world's edge, there would be no talk of you! May I have neither gold in my house nor power to sing songs sweeter than Orpheus, if it is not my lot to have high renown!”

Brutus rolls his eyes and turns from him, but Antony hastens forward in two bounding steps and takes hold of him suddenly by the upper arms.

He turns Brutus around and says intently into his face, “Thus far I have spoken to you regarding my labors: for it was _you_ who started this contest of words – as for your reproaches to me against my royal marriage, here I shall show, first, that I am wise,” and, as snorts issue from around the room, he releases Brutus and steps back, placing a hand modestly over his heart. “Second, self-controlled.” The snorts turn to catcalls. “And third, a _great_ friend to you.”

“Oh, _please –_ ” starts Brutus.

Antony puts his hand up. “Ah, ah. I'm not done – hold your peace!”

He looks around at their audience with narrow, considering eyes. Brutus has only truly known him a few hours, and yet he already knows well enough to feel some apprehension at this expression. Antony can be so unpredictable.

Sure enough, Antony approaches him again – and to everyone's great shock, he drops to his knees. His face, turned up, becomes beseeching.

“When I first moved here, bringing with me many misfortunes hard to deal with, what luckier find than this could I have made – marriage with the daughter of the king, though I was an exile?”

His hand reaches up and fists in Brutus's toga. He tugs and it is either break character and let his toga be pulled off or play along. Brutus lets himself be pulled down, so they are on their knees before one another.

Antony says softly, “It was not that I was weary of your bed and smitten with desire for a new bride. My purpose was that we should live well, and not be in want, knowing that everyone goes out of his way to avoid a penniless friend.”

He lets go of the toga and raises his hand to Brutus's cheek, as a husband might caress a distraught wife. His dark eyes stare, fathomless, into Brutus's.

It is all most affecting – until Antony continues:

“I wanted to beget brothers to the children born from you, and put them on the same footing with them, so that by drawing the family into one I might prosper. For your part, what need have you of any more children? For me, it is advantageous to use future children to benefit those already born.” He shrugs. “Was this a bad plan?”

This last question he directs to the audience, asking them to play judge and jury to their faux domestic spat.

“Jason, you have marshaled your arguments very skillfully,” pronounces Aristocrates dryly, taking possession of the Chorus Leader's lines. He looks around at the others and says, “but I think that in abandoning your wife you are not doing right.”

Antony waits a second and says, Jason gone and voice returning to his normal conversational tone, “Ah, well, I suppose no actor is so good as to change the outcome of a play already written.”

The Greeks laugh and Brutus finally breaks character and permits a smile to cross his face. With the scene thus over, he stands and busies himself straightening his toga. Antony appears content for the moment to remain as he is, on his knees and smiling up at him.

“Well?” he inquires. “Did I change _your_ mind, at least?”

“Jason,” says Brutus shortly, face hot, “is a manipulative lout.”

He realizes, too late, that Antony's playacting has shaken him. He imagines he can still feel the hand on his face, and the other man's pretense at imploring devotion has left him a little confused. And when Brutus gets confused, he tends to snap.

“Oh?” says Antony, smile gone. “Do tell.”

He says, “His deficiencies as a husband and master are too numerous to list. But suffice to say – when someone shows you obedience and devotion, it forms a bond. One you do not turn your back on for some petty notion of personal gain.”

“It's not like divorcing a wife to marry for better advantage is unheard of back home,” scoffs Antony, finally standing. He glances to the others and back at Brutus. “Or are you this hard on your dear uncle Cato?”

Aristocrates, seeing the offense this causes Brutus, breaks in, “Hey, now, Antony. Let us not resort to personal attacks.”

“It's not a personal attack, it's a perfectly relevant point about his uncle.”

“I greatly respect my uncle,” says Brutus stiffly.

Antony's eyebrows rise, emphatic. “Exactly.”

“You don't know the first thing you're talking about by referencing his marriages.” He sets his teeth and sneers, “I would've thought Mark Antony, of all people, would hesitate before brandishing casual slander based on secondhand rumours.”

Antony's head goes back as if struck; after a second, his mouth quirks in an unpleasant smirk. Brutus has no instinct for smiling when angry, and merely glowers back at him.

“Is the play over?” Eumaeus asks Philistos a whisper that is painfully audible to all.

“Yes,” says Antony, not looking away from Brutus. “It's over.”

* * *

It is with a mixture of regret and resignation that Aristocrates bids Brutus farewell ten minutes after Antony has left.

“Sorry if we ruined your symposium,” mutters Brutus into the wood of the doorstep.

“Oh, we'll keep drinking until dawn or we all pass out,” says Aristocrates. “Do not worry about us – but Brutus?”

“Hm?” He turns unsteadily on the street and looks back to him.

The Greek's expression is hard to make out in the dark, back-lit as he is from the lights within the house. But his voice sounds genuine when he says, “It was good to meet you properly. This night, I mean. Thank you for coming.”

“Oh,” he says. “I mean – yes, thank you. You too. Or – yes. It was good. Wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was,” Aristocrates confirms. The line of his shoulders relaxes and he slumps against the open doorway and folds his arms across his chest. “If nothing else, I suppose I can now say I have seen Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger drunk.”

“You. Are most welcome,” says Brutus. He sketches a bow and nearly unbalances into a rosebush.

“Goodnight, Brutus.”

“Have a good night, Aristocrates.”

He walks stubbornly down the dark street, his heavy tread clumsy with anger and interrupted coordination. He thinks he knows the way back to his rooms. He is pretty sure.

But why should he skulk back to his place so early, chastened? Like he is the one at fault here? Like he can't find other things to occupy his night? He knows how to have fun in Athens without Mark Antony. It cannot be hard to replicate the experiment: find alcohol, add charmingly boorish company. Easy.

He sees a series of lanterns at the top of the street.

 _Easy_.

* * *

“And, well, what do _you_ think?” says Brutus to his companion, a rather drawn fellow slumped over the tavern table, holding his head in his hands. “I am interested in your opinion.”

“Mate, I've told you – just because I'm Greek, doesn't mean I give a fuck about the Cynics.” These words are uttered into the man's cupped palms.

“Alright,” says Brutus quickly, not wanting to offend another so soon after the first. “Fair point, that's – that's a fair point. Didn't mean to assume, you understand. I'm just keen.” He pauses and says, “How are you on the Stoics?”

The heavy wooden bench is very loud as it is suddenly pushed back, and the man stumbles up and walks away.

“That was kind of rude,” says Brutus to no one. He picks up his cup – the wine at this establishment is subpar, but at this hour he finds he is not so picky – and finishes it off. Then he stands and heads for the door. He needs to relieve his bladder.

The lantern on the street has been doused, he notices as he stumbles past. He spares a thought to the time, but shrugs and props himself against the side of the building. He rucks up his tunic and sighs in relief. He shuts his eyes a moment and lets his head rest against the cool stone of the shop.

He frowns.

Hostile voices are conversing nearby – the next alley over, perhaps, next to the small stables. Whatever it's about, the argument sounds like it is escalating. Making a face, Brutus looks around for someone else to deal with it. But seeing no one, he shakes himself off, lets his tunic drop, and pushes off the wall.

It's very dark near the stables, no one having bothered to put out lanterns for the benefit of the horses. Brutus steps hesitantly closer, guided by the angry voices.

“ – pathetic, isn't it? You can't find anything else to do with your free night than stalk me over another man's spare coin?”

His steps stutter. After a long evening of training his ears to listen for it, he recognizes Antony's voice easily. Of course it is him.

The problem with Mark Antony, he thinks, is that he's always getting into trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

“You underestimate how badly Vibidius wants your account settled,” says the other voice. “You fleeing to Athens is an insult, and insults must be answered.”

Brutus frowns – the voice might be familiar, but he's never heard it sound so hard or menacing. He tilts his ear to hear better. He concentrates on this task so hard, he doesn't watch his step in the damnable dark, and his foot slips in a wet pile of horseshit.

He goes down in a loud flail of cursing.

Needless to say, the voices deeper in the alley cut off.

He realizes who the voice belongs to a moment before the face appears above him. Rabanus Buteo peers down at him and, after recognition floods his face, stretches out an eager hand to help him up.

Brutus ignores it and scrambles upright on his own. A few feet behind Buteo, Antony leans against a post and – Brutus cannot make out his expression. He looks away before it becomes obvious he cares.

“Evening,” Brutus says stiffly, to them both.

“Marcus Brutus,” says Buteo, his tone already softening into feigned respect. You'd never know he'd been threatening someone with some manner of violence a mere minute ago.

“...Buteo, is it?” he says. He makes a show of brushing off his tunic and shaking out his toga. (His shit-covered sandal, he ignores; in the darkness it is not noticeable to another.)

“Yes, that's right,” says Buteo eagerly. “Rabanus Buteo. But... what is a fine citizen such as yourself doing out here at this hour?”

Brutus says sharply, “I think you'll find that is my business.”

“Of course,” assures Buteo, putting his hands up. “Of course, of course—”

Brutus straightens his toga in as fastidious a fashion as he can manage while being painfully aware of the horseshit caking his right foot and says, in his best impression of his imperious mother, “A better question, I should think, is why you are haunting this district and accosting my friend.”

“I did not realize,” says Buteo thinly, after a very startled moment, “that you were acquainted with Mark Antony.”

“Acquainted? This man is under my patronage.” The pause following this is long enough that it would ordinarily be very awkward to Brutus, if he wasn't so very inebriated and annoyed.

Buteo cannot move against Brutus, not with his family and many connections; what he might do to someone under Brutus's patronage is less clear, and likely requires further consideration.

“I see,” says Buteo at last. For once he sounds almost neutral. Turns out he is a natural tenor, who knew?

“Do you?” he says. “Because it seems to me you're still here. In front of me. For some reason I cannot discern?”

“I suppose I should get going,” starts Buteo, but Brutus interrupts him, impatient.

“Yes. Do.” And he points, because after all he is drunk and no longer has a handle on effective pleading technique. “ _Go_.”

After Buteo has skulked off, Brutus is momentarily distracted with removing his sandal and wiping his foot clean of the horseshit. He would like to say he forgets Antony's presence entirely, but he is painfully aware of his figure standing in the shadows a few feet away.

Eventually the silence gets to be too much, and he snaps, “Oh – _what_?”

Antony says, utterly baffled, “I don't understand you.”

“Well, I don't understand you either. So – we have that in common, at least.”

“Look, don't get me wrong – I appreciate it. But you spoke with the confidence of one who has never had his reputation impugned. I only worry you'll regret your words this night. Tomorrow, for example, when you sober up.”

Brutus shoves his foot back into his sandal, straightens, and declares, “If I regret my words, I shall no longer be a proper son of the Junii.”

“ _Oh_ , hello. You're very drunk, aren't you,” says Antony. He moves forward to catch him before Brutus can stumble into another likely pile of horseshit. His hands are warm and strong as he manhandles him around so they are in a position the reverse of the one earlier, when Brutus helped him to the baths.

“Like you're not,” says Brutus, sagging sideways.

“Oh, no, I definitely am,” the other says agreeably. “It's only I am more accustomed to it. Do it long enough, and you get a little voice that sits atop your head, narrating the whole thing. Doesn't help much in stopping any foolishness, mind you, but it does give one a semblance of sobriety.”

“I think I hear what you mean,” he mutters into his neck.

They don't speak of their earlier fight; it is as if it happened to a different pair of men. Instead, they shift their arms so they are holding one another up, and then they stagger back into the street.

* * *

The problem, partly, is that Brutus rarely sleeps more than a few hours a night anyway, so he feels wide awake, albeit very drunk. And Antony is likely accustomed to drinking down multiple nights into submission. As a pair, they do not respect the call of the hour – what is the hour? When Brutus tries to estimate the time by looking up, the stars smear together.

Somehow, in a hazy intention to head towards Brutus's rooms, they cross through the desolate stretch of the Roman agora.

“Probably not safe to walk through here at night,” says Brutus, looking suspiciously around at the shadows. They might as well be in the countryside. Bandits could be anywhere. “Probably get knifed for your coin purse.”

“Haven't got a coin purse,” says Antony.

“But I – ” and here, Brutus pats his belt, “Oh, no, you're right. I'm out as well.”

“So, we're safe.”

“So we are.”

They make it halfway across the agora before Brutus announces he desire to stop and rest a moment. When Antony lets go of him, he promptly sprawls on the ground, tangling in his toga.

He can hear Antony laughing above him and says crossly, “You dog, where are your manners?” He stretches a hand up, and the other man clasps it, but instead of helping him up, Antony lowers himself to the ground beside him.

They lie there, holding hands. It is very odd, but also kind of nice, so Brutus allows it.

“Did you come to Athens just to escape your creditors?” he finds himself asking after a while.

“...Nah,” says Antony eventually, “I mean, don't get me wrong, it was a definite perk. But there was also some bad business with the demagogue Clodius. Not sure how I even got tangled up in it – hey, don't laugh. I swear these things just _happen_ to me, I've no idea how. People can be so strange.”

Brutus gets his breathing under control and manages to say, “You, naturally, are an innocent bystander to all manner of strangeness.”

“That's right, that's _right_ , damn it, I am... anyway,” he continues, “wanted to make a clean break of it, get an education, some training. So: Greece.”

Brutus rolls over onto his side so he can look at him. “And you. Have you plans for after?”

Antony moves onto his side as well, and props his head up on his elbow. Their hands are still joined on the ground between them. It's like they're having a very long handshake.

“Sure. After this, I'll do my ten years in the legions. Make a name for myself – a different name for myself,” he adds with a twist of dark humor. “And then I'll begin the path of honors. Get some control over my life. And you?”

Brutus chews his lip. “I suppose that's all the proper course, yes. That is what is expected.” But then the same impulsiveness that has driven him through the night braces him again and he blurts out: “Though – I do not much want a public life.”

Antony blinks at him and repeats, “You don't want a public life.”

Brutus shakes his head. His eyes feel huge on his face and his breath comes quick. He doesn't think he has ever said it aloud before. He might not have even said it just now, except he's lying in a strange private huddle with Mark Antony in the middle of a deserted neighborhood 700 miles from Rome. Surely even his mother cannot overhear a word of this.

“You, a son of the Junii and Servilii, vaunted tyrannicides both?” And at Brutus's somewhat miserable nod, Antony asks, genuinely perplexed, “But – what is it you want to _do_ , then?”

Brutus thinks about it, conscious of the other man watching him and waiting.

“They say public life is like any other role on the stage. Is it not enough to be good to those in my charge and otherwise spend my days quietly reading and writing?” he asks honestly.

Antony sits swiftly up, like this answer has demanded some outlet of physical movement. He looks torn between shock and laughter.

And, after all, he is built like a gladiator and spends his more sober hours soothing the chip on his shoulder by planning a mighty life full of glory and spectacle. It is unlikely he can even begin to understand Brutus's wish. Except – he visibly checks both impulses and looks at Brutus again, closely. His amusement fades.

He drops back down next to Brutus and leans over him. “Oh, Gods beneath us, you're in earnest, aren't you?”

Brutus smiles at him tightly.

He thinks on this and realizes, “They'll never allow you that.”

“No,” agrees Brutus, “I don't suppose they will.”

Antony arranges himself on his side once more, but instead of picking up Brutus's hand where he'd dropped it, he rests it on his belt – not with any intent, seemingly, but only to fiddle with the leather as he muses aloud.

“Perhaps you're smart to want shot of it all. I mean, some days it does feel like it's going to end in a disaster, doesn't it?”

Brutus frowns, fighting the distraction of the hand playing with his belt. “I don't think I agree, no. Disaster?”

“Well, it's like Aristotle said, isn't it? It's all cack, or eventually turns to cack, at which point another thing will takes its place – a king, perhaps, whatever – which itself will eventually also turn to cack.”

“An – interesting summary of Aristotelian political theory, thank you.”

“Do you disagree?” Antony stops fiddling with the belt and start undoing its fastening. Brutus raises his head and watches, brow knit. “Brutus, do you disagree?”

“What?” He tries to focus. “Well, at the risk of sounding like a one-writer sort of man, I prefer Polybius's view. He says we've avoided the usual structural problems with our – _what are you_ – ”

Antony pulls the belt from beneath him and tosses it to the side. “The view from the top is very flattering, I suppose. You don't spend much time talking to the assemblies, clearly.”

“As we have just established, I'm not very interested in politics. Antony,” he asks seriously, hands reaching to forestall him, “what are you doing?”

Antony, who had been leaning alarmingly over his lap, finally pauses and looks up at him. He says, sounding a little harassed, “Look, I've been thinking about it all fucking night. Please?”

Faintly stunned and dry-mouthed, Brutus makes a weak, permissive gesture, and Antony responds by burying his face between his legs, mouthing his cock hotly through the tunic.

“Right,” says Brutus faintly, and then groans as Antony impatiently rucks up the fabric and takes him properly into his mouth.

Antony is swift and sloppy, more eager than coordinated – it makes Brutus burn, how eager he is, how he sucks and licks at him like he – _I've been thinking about it all fucking night_ – like he weighed Brutus in his hand earlier in the bath and kept wondering what he'd feel like on his tongue, like he thought about it while they walked and talked, while they drank at the symposium, while he got on his knees for Brutus before an audience and asked in Jason's words for understanding –

Brutus can no longer bear to be so passive. He shoves at Antony's shoulders, pushing him compliant and only slightly complaining onto his back, and then kneels astride his chest. Antony, quickly realizing what he's about, licks his lips and says only, “Yes, come on—” and then Brutus is feeding him his cock.

He digs his fingers through Antony's thick hair and pulls: lightly, just enough to guide him into position as he fucks his mouth. His own knees shake from arousal and the night's drinking and the sheer blissful disbelief at the sight of Antony's eyes, creased from pleasure, tears in the corners spilling down the side of his face.

Brutus has to let go of his head and curl forward as he comes, catching his palms roughly in the dirt. His cock pulses down Antony's greedily swallowing throat.

He eases back with a breathless wince, torso wavering in the air. He thinks to check on Antony, glancing down over his shoulder and asking vaguely, “Do you...” but he sees Antony's hand is limp atop his own spent cock. “Oh, right. Good. I mean – sorry.”

Antony laughs and says, voice mesmerizingly raspy, “Don't apologize, idiot. I'm grand.”

And he looks it: hair a disaster, mouth very red and currently hooked into a smug grin. Brutus climbs off and collapses beside him. He'll get up in a moment, he thinks, and then doesn't.

“Well, that's me vanquished,” announces Antony, stretching his hands luxuriantly behind his head. His teeth flash in the dark as he grins over at him. “Shall I call you Antonicus?”

At the uttering of the name, Brutus raises his head from the man's shoulder – struck by the immediacy and force of his own recognition. He looks at him, even in the afterglow of sex unable to be anything but too-serious.

“Not unless you mean it,” he says.

Antony's grin fades to something less sure. As if he'd not thought it through before offering himself over.

The problem with Mark Antony, Brutus thinks, is that the man takes no care for himself. Like an unruly province, he needs a governor.

They're both of them too drunk to spend again, but it's no matter: Brutus has something of his own he's been wanting to do all night. He cups his face in his hands; Antony's eyes widen a fraction as Brutus leans in, mouth tilting towards his. He looks cautious, perhaps a little lost, and then Brutus loses sight because he is kissing him, slow and wet.

He pours all he has felt during their time together, his startled and confused longing, his messy jealousy and demanding heart. Twelve hours they've known one another, really, and yet Brutus feels irreversibly altered: opened, claimed, and damned, all in the space of time it would've taken him to write one miserable, inadequate poem.

He breaks away but doesn't go far, resting his forehead on Antony's collarbone. He clumsily nuzzles him and says, half-ardent and half-plaintive, “Is that you making my head spin, or the wine?”

Laughter vibrates in Antony's chest, and he says, carefree and senseless, “Yes,” and pulls Brutus back up to kiss again.

* * *

Dawn spills out over the Roman agora, filling the empty plots with light and chasing away all the possibilities that had gathered in the dark.

He awakens and is stiff from sleeping on the ground. His eyes are burning faintly, but the hangover has otherwise not quite arrived yet. It's only been a couple hours. He rolls over and looks up.

Antony is already up and sitting beside him with his legs bent, his arms a loose loop over his knees as he fiddles with some long stems of grass. His hair is a Medusa's mane of unruly tufts and cowlicks, and his cheek is still creased from where he'd rested it on Brutus's bundled toga. He looks like he slept in a field; which, to be fair, they did.

Brutus knows he likely looks the same, though probably not nearly as fetching. Dishevelment has only ever made him appear ill.

With great effort, he hauls himself up to a seated position, and then pauses. Dazed. His right leg is asleep. He grunts and lifts it into place, extended out before him. He pounds his foot on the ground and wiggles his toes.

Antony observes all this with nothing but slow, bleary blinks.

They do not speak. Mornings after such a night are too delicate for speech. No one else is around: which is good, Brutus thinks. He cannot countenance the idea of other people at the moment.

The sun continues its relentless upward creep. Brutus plucks the stems of grass from the other's fidgeting hands and begins braiding them. Antony watches his fingers contemplatively. Once he has formed a loose band, he slides it over Antony's wrist like this is an act that makes any sort of sense – and maybe it does, because Antony accepts it with nary an odd look. The pulse at his wrist beats sure and strong beneath Brutus's fingers.

Brutus sighs and squints out over the agora. The heat is rising, or maybe that's the drink fever. He badly desires some cool water – to drink; to bathe in and wash the sweat of the night from his limbs.

His right leg has stopped tingling. He takes a breath and pushes to his feet. He stands a moment, upright and wavering, wanting to make sure it sticks before attempting a step. Standing is a grim necessity for what comes after. He must do it to make his way from here, but the cost is almost too great to be borne.

Meanwhile, Antony gazes wordlessly up at him. His eyes are bloodshot, one of them nearly sealed shut from horrendous bruising and his mouth is very swollen; they'd kissed until they both passed out.

Antony looks like he expects nothing, which is displeasing to Brutus. It feels only natural for him to take hold of the situation, so he extends his hand and says:

“Breakfast.”

It's less an invitation than a command. Something shifts behind the other man's eyes a moment before his mouth curls in a quiet smile and he lifts his right arm. The clap of his hand in Brutus's stings a little – he does everything so forcefully – and he allows himself to be hauled up.

 _Don't let go_ , thinks Brutus, a second before Antony does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) one does not read about Roman victory names without immediately wondering how they can be used in a sexual context, okay
> 
> 2) just want to point out that Brutus's decision to seduce him in the baths was actually his first ever Three-Cup Plan concerning Antony
> 
> 3) Why Medea? Well, ever since reading that Brutus quoted her character in his final moments after the Battle of Philippi, I haven't been able to stop wondering about it; why that play; why that character?
> 
> 4) an amphora of wine for whoever recognizes Aristocrates from Plutarch
> 
> 5) if you made it to the end of this ridiculous story without hitting the back button, you have my sincere and boundless gratitude.


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